Iran has long sponsored terrorists who carry out homicide

Host:
The desert night was black and endless, its horizon cut only by the faint, flickering fires of an oil field in the distance. The air was thick with heat, sand, and the low rumble of military vehicles moving somewhere unseen beyond the dunes.

A single tent stood near the edge of an abandoned checkpoint, its canvas fluttering under a foreign wind. Inside, a dim lamp burned, casting a circle of amber light over a table strewn with maps, photographs, and half-empty cups of coffee.

Jack sat with his sleeves rolled, his hands scarred from dust and work, his face hard, tired, stern — the kind of face that had seen too much to trust words. Across from him, Jeeny stood, her hair tied back, her eyes dark but alive, the firelight catching on her cheekbones. They had both been sent here — one as a reporter, the other as a witness — and the desert had made them equals in doubt.

Jeeny: “You read the briefing, didn’t you?”

Jack: “I read it. And I read the one before that. And the one before that.”

Jeeny: “Then you know what’s coming.”

Jack: “I know what they say is coming.”

Host: He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his eyes — not with fear, but with that restless skepticism that had once been mistaken for courage.

Jack: “John Doolittle was right — ‘Iran has long sponsored terrorists who carry out homicide bombings in Israeli cities. However, it is a mistake to believe the danger Iran poses is directed at Israel alone.’”

Jeeny: “So you think this is about global threat now? About power beyond borders?”

Jack: “It’s always been about power, Jeeny. The terror is just the language. The message is the same: ‘We can reach you anywhere.’”

Jeeny: “And what do we do? Respond with fear? Build more walls?”

Jack: “We prepare. We watch. We don’t pretend that distance is safety.”

Host: A gust of wind slammed against the tent, shaking the lamps and maps, spilling a thin line of sand across the table — like a reminder that even the borders they drew couldn’t hold.

Jeeny: “You always talk like a soldier, Jack. But this isn’t a war zone — it’s a world. People are tired. They want peace.”

Jack: “Peace built on denial isn’t peace, it’s a pause.”

Jeeny: “So what, we keep fighting forever?”

Jack: “Until we understand what we’re fighting for.”

Host: His voice was low, but the conviction in it was cold — like a bullet wrapped in reason.

Jeeny: “You talk about Iran like it’s a monster. But monsters are made, Jack — not born. Decades of isolation, sanctions, threats. What do you expect to grow out of that?”

Jack: “You think terrorism is justified?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s not random, either. You can’t plant rage for years and then act surprised when it blooms. You can’t call it evil without first admitting what fed it.”

Jack: “You’re talking like an idealist again.”

Jeeny: “And you’re talking like someone who’s forgotten that people exist inside politics.”

Host: The lamp flame wavered, casting their faces in opposing light — one side shadowed, the other gold. Outside, a distant explosion rolled through the night, a low, muted boom, like thunder too tired to warn.

Jack: “Tell that to the families in Tel Aviv. Or the markets in Haifa. Tell them the rage was fed by circumstance. See if that makes their loss easier to swallow.”

Jeeny: “And tell the children in Tehran that the world only sees them as threats — not souls. That justice wears one flag, and mercy wears none. You think that makes the next generation less likely to hate?”

Jack: “Maybe not. But it might make them fear enough to hesitate.”

Jeeny: “That’s not peace, Jack. That’s control.”

Host: Silence. The kind that doesn’t come from agreement, but from recognition — when both sides see the truth, but can’t bear its shape.

Jack: “You want to understand them. I want to stop them. That’s the difference.”

Jeeny: “And I think if we don’t understand, we’ll never stop anything.”

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t deter a bomb.”

Jeeny: “And fear doesn’t build a future.”

Host: She moved toward him then, her voice softer, measured, the firelight flickering in her eyes.

Jeeny: “You know, I interviewed a widow once — her husband was killed in a bus bombing in Jerusalem. She said something I never forgot. She said, ‘The men who did this thought they’d destroy love. But all they did was teach me to love the world harder — because hate already knows how to multiply itself.’”

Jack: “That’s a nice story.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a story, Jack. It’s a warning. If we only fight, we become what we fear. If we forget mercy, we lose humanity.”

Jack: “You sound like you want to forgive them.”

Jeeny: “No. I want to see them. So we can stop repeating them.”

Host: The lamp flickered, the flame shrinking, as though it too was tired of arguing.

Jack: “You think understanding is going to save us? The world doesn’t negotiate with bombs.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world needs to learn another language.”

Jack: “You mean empathy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because hatred doesn’t end when the enemy dies. It ends when the idea of an enemy does.”

Host: The wind howled outside, lifting the edges of the tent, carrying with it the smell of smoke and metal — the odor of a world perpetually on edge.

Jack: “You’re asking for miracles, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m asking for memory. So we stop building the same wars out of different names.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The desert expanded around them — vast, dark, indifferent. Yet in that silence, something shifted — a truce, not of agreement, but of understanding.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the danger Iran poses — the one Doolittle warned about — isn’t just political. Maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s the same danger we all carry — the one that makes us forget that the enemy bleeds the same.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only truth worth fighting for.”

Host: The lamp died then, leaving them in darkness, but the light from the distant oil fires still glowed on the horizon — orange, angry, but alive.

Host: The camera would pull back now — the tent, a small island of shadow in an ocean of sand and flame. Two voices, once at odds, now silent — listening to a truth that neither had won, but both had earned.

And in the vast, restless dark, the echo of their debate would linger —
that the real danger was never a nation,
but the blindness that makes us forget the cost of not seeing each other.